Han

Tag: Life

Under yellow lights

under yellow lights
we blitzed to find distinct categories of love
filtrated amorousness from romanticism
marked out people who were psychotic
and unknowingly drowned the cold hall
in a ghastly apprehension

we then see that
in a grand scheme of things
terrorism and overt nuclear threats
are atomised concerns

saw that
ostracisation was never a deliberate attempt
but a biological perennial proclivity
to purge and better evolution

but we are perhaps
nothing close to having the world as our oyster
nor the sky as our limit

we are finite in desire, in potential and in discovery

under yellow lights
we will never know who we are
and oftentimes
profound analyses reveal haunting and dark visions

for we see not humans, but creatures akin to cancer cells
for we see not a sacred ceremony, but a justified exploration of self
for we see not faith, but a notion that purely advocates homogenity

I knew, but alas

I am going mad, abysmally mad. I don’t know what’s about your profound and enthralling disposition that makes me want to write about you in the night and in the oddest times of day. I used to dismiss writings that dealt with emotional attachments, for I surmised them to be nothing but hackneyed synonyms of the popular ones that blew off the charts.

Imagine us in an ocean, water that is thickly charming, silent and content. I see you — far at the other end, approaching snow-capped mountains — like green light in the Great Gatsby. I wish you well. I did so in fact, without your knowledge.

What lulls me not is your ambiguity, your unforgettably idiosyncratic features.

I need to learn to smile, and let you go.

Amongst the fall

It has been 2 days into camp and at every 1930 hours, I get brutally reminded of the magnificently pleasing dinner I had with Dad and Mom yesterday evening. We had Japanese glutinous rice — all was well except for the anxiety catalysed by the imminent book in. I am writing this, seated on moist mud, hands raped by sandflies as they leave their crimson mark of bestiality, surrounded by somewhat awfully annoying chirps and squawks of unidentifiable birds, the sneaky rustling of leaves caused by the scurrying of anonymous creatures.

Beside my shellscrape-to-be, there is an abominable ant-nest. Shafts of sunlight blind the nest, as if sadistically glorifying its abhorrent presence. All I implore is to have peaceful nights and uninterrupted rest. 

The sunlight would soon away and a canvas of black would soon replace the light; trees in the night would begin to act like haunting phantoms donned in stygian shawls silently screaming terror.

(written on 07052016)

Playing with mortality

I was down with a mortal affliction that was insanely close to taking my life away. Two days ago, I had my second book out and went to Han’s for supper with Dad. All was good (prematurely) — he enjoyed his Curry Chicken while I was greatly satisfied with Beef Hor Fun and Spaghetti with Chicken. Perhaps mine were portions too huge and undesirable for a weary stomach. My intestines gave way like broken water-pipes, releasing an ordeal of pain and palpable versions of death that were killing me from within.

The day after I was scrunching like a millipede, wringing my tummy in throes. The acute abdominal pain was distressing. 

I then saw the world as dead 4 days ago when I fell hard in the cold enfeebling arms of death — all living things having coalesced into a lifeless and dreadful matter, where everything breathing and moving seemed unreal. Stars in the witching hour merely looked like tiny holes with penetrating light. 

What Are We

I: In the train

The two gentlemen discussed enthusiastically about the marvellousness of technology; the accessibility of a scientific calculator by simply turning the phone to landscape mode. I saw one of their eyes metamorphose into a pair of thin lines, indicative of satisfaction and contentment from living in the 21st century. Distinctively, the way he enunciates “common sense” as “common cent” is proof that he once belonged to the civilisation of attap houses, with bamboo poles as gates rather than alloys.

Another stands beside me, sending his recorded words of concern to his wife through Facebook. I couldn’t quite comprehend his language for his accent suggested that he probably originated from a certain dialect group in China. More admirably, he is not bothered about the judgements others might have of him, as the tone of his voice was relatively loud in the rather silent cabin. Separated by distance, what he only has on his mind now is whether his wife would be able to receive his audio note as he awaits her reply patiently in Singapore.

II: At the playground

Life is just gravely pretentious since birth, the nurse exclaims in undue excitement whilst announcing the gender of the baby. In actuality, her excitement is the same old demeanour she grabs off the shelves before surgery, masking her stoic countenance.

A girl runs past me, being genuinely eager about wanting to have fun at the playground, her mother merely smiles and gestures her to go ahead, pushing the pram placidly. The child surmises her approval to be a form of motherly companion for play, only to be disappointed. We reach a point in life where we lose all innocence and extract ourselves away from childlike behaviour. The mother sits by the side, being wholly engaged by whatever is going on in her phone, smiling to herself, unconsciously leaving her child alone. Alas, the playground is a metaphor for our elusive happiness, the colours of our life, always far from home.

III: In the car

The music playing in the car is utterly loud, like fireworks rupturing the repose night sky. I feel sick, perhaps it’s a consequence of staying up too late in the night while reading the unabridged journals of Sylvia Plath and hastily writing down fragments of beautiful phrases that I would like to read again in the future. The car is going at a rapid speed and I think to myself — rather perversely — if it loses control, what will happen then?

When I am on the brink of death, with the smell of metallic crimson blood being so pungent, will my mind go blank because of my inherent disability to witness blood or would it be due to sheer resignation? Will I remember that I am still human, capable of hollering for help?

 

 

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